


Tenebrae

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, department of pretentious latin titles, dwarves and feanorians, my two favorite things to write about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:29:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first meeting between two very old friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenebrae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ParadifeLoft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/gifts).



It was not long before the Dwarves began to come to Hithlum. Morifinwë had written of the people of the Ered Luin, of their deep-delved cities and their jeweled axes, of veins of gold and silver and mistarillë, deposits of chrysoprase and iolite and onyx. And so Curufinwë had come to expect merchants. Blessed, perhaps, by the riches of the mountains where they made their home, but not otherwise of significance. The image foremost in his mind, in the days before, was of a species of choleric, red-faced coin-counters, speaking in his brother’s voice. And so it was with mild interest he greeted the travelers at the outer gate.

The letters bore no mention of their system of mathematics, which used a different base than that favored by his own people, or alloys unknown in Aman and the surpassing skill of their hands. They called themselves Khazad, in their own tongue, harsh and alien and lovely, which he had not yet been able to decipher. As the months passed, his workshop became filled with feverish annotations. They purposed to return before his notes were complete, and just as the edges of his mind began to sting with the incipient thrill of new discovery.

He took to meeting with the travelers on every morning of their stay, to listen to their stories and record their speech patterns. They spoke of the knowledge of their people, developed and refined in the gathering dark. Their smiths and philosophers and illuminators. And, above all, one name.

When they asked if he might like to travel back with them, he expected it might be from sheer annoyance.

 

——————————————————————————

The Great Dome of the central hall of Gabilgathol was adorned with gems, more beautiful than those of Menegroth – if less bright. Curufinwë amused himself by trying to interpret their patterns, which bore little semblance to Varda’s stars. Perhaps writing, then? The symbols did not appear to be alphabetic in nature, though they were defined by complex and repeating geometric patterns. One glyph, in particular, seemed to be particularly common –

“Curufin-uzbad.” A gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts, and he forgave the speaker – a gold-brocaded courier, beard teased into elaborate braids – for the lapse in the pronunciation of his name. “Gamil-zirak will see you now.”

——————————————————————————-

The great smith’s halls were dark, even against to the perpetual twilight of the hollow city. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, broken as it was by the occasional shower of sparks. A sullen-looking apprentice with a dark red beard poked at the coals, brows drawn together in furious concentration. Curufinwë breathed in the familiar odor with as much hunger and his carefully maintained dignity would allow. Acrid smoke burnt the roof of his mouth and stung against the inside of his nostrils. Glints of gold were visible through the haze, against the obsidian walls.

It was several more minutes until his eyes fell on Gamil-zirak. They were seated on the ground, in the corner of their own forge, scraping patterns in the dust with a metal stylus. Their eyes were dark and painfully wide, tilted upwards towards a sun they would never see, and their unbraided beard gathered at their ankles. Though almost certainly younger than Curufinwë, the Dwarf seemed older, as if they had grown from the mountain’s roots.

“Welcome, elf-lord, edhil-hîr, edhil-uzbad. First of your kind to pass beneath these walls and walk between the tombs of our ancestors and the dome of the illuminated Word. Are the ceilings high enough?”

None of the Khazad present seemed to find the question particularly unusual. “Their height is satisfactory.”

“Really? I didn’t expect they would be, we’ve never had to accommodate an individual of your stature. I suppose we build them too high. I’ve always wondered if we could fit an elf in here. Now I know. There’s something awfully limiting about knowing, isn’t there?” If their eyes had been unfocused before, and distant, they were no knife-sharp and focused, unseeing, on his face.

“I –“

“ _You_ want something.”

Their tone was not accusatory. Nor, of course, were they inaccurate. “I will not say that my journey was entirely without purpose. Master Gamil-zirak, I can assure you that a collaboration between the craftsmen of our two peoples would be mutually beneficial.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. But the arrangements should be left to a craftsman, I should think.”

“I was lead to believe that you were greatest of them.”

“I was, when I worked in stone and metal. There was a time when the stars shone silver-bright and I wrought mail a thousand times more fair than any of them for Melian’s folk. I made a helm, once, of pure mithril all through, with a crest of a falcon taking flight, that granted the wearer far, clear vision. And a shield of gold laid over steel, on which the histories of my people are engraved. I have wrought great things. But I have not picked up my hammer since the time I realized that I would never surpass them.”

Curufinwë found himself in the highly unusual position of being struck dumb. He imagined his hands as they would be if they were empty and uncallused from the forge, soft pale dead things. He can think of nothing to say, and so he says the obvious. “And yet, you take apprentices.”

“Oh, you mean Telchar? He is already an artist, but he came all the way here from Nogrod to learn from me, and my supposed wisdom. Don’t look like that, it’s not as if all of us will be competing with our students until the end of time. And stop speaking to me in Edhellen, I know Edhellen, the language of laughing trees and moving water, yes? I’ve never understood how a tree can laugh, but then again I’ve never seen a tree. The stars, even, are too much for my eyes. But you newcomers speak in a different tongue. I would learn it of you.”

Gamil-zirak’s voice rolled though sharp consonant clusters and over long vowels with greater fluency than the structure of his lips and tongue should possibly allow. It seemed that they were expressing excitement, to the extent that their throat, damaged by centuries of use and smoke inhalation, would allow them. That, and the curious brightness in their eyes, allowed Curufinwë to treat the implied insult with greater civility than was his wont.

“Then you are already aware the ‘Edhellen’ refers to a language spoken among all Elves – which Þindarin, demonstrably, is not. However, I would be most pleased to teach you the structure and morphology of Quenya.”


End file.
